


Not Dark Yet

by cindergal



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Bittersweet, Depression, Grimmauld Place, Inspired by Music, M/M, OotP Era, freewheelin' ficathon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-05
Updated: 2018-03-05
Packaged: 2019-03-25 22:44:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13844568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cindergal/pseuds/cindergal
Summary: The darkness is coming...But it’s not dark yet.





	Not Dark Yet

**Author's Note:**

> Importing some of my older fics from LJ. Originally posted there 4/2008.
> 
> Written for the Freewheelin' Ficathon, a multi-fandom fic challenge inspired by the music of Bob Dylan. My fic is based on the following lyrics:
> 
> Shadows are falling and I've been here all day  
> It's too hot to sleep time is running away  
> Feel like my soul has turned into steel  
> I've still got the scars that the sun didn't heal  
> There's not even room enough to be anywhere  
> It's not dark yet, but it's getting there  
> \- from “Not Dark Yet” by Bob Dylan

The house is always too bloody hot or too bloody cold. Whatever you don’t want it to be, that‘s what it is. Today it’s too hot. And too big. And too dark and too empty. The sun shines brightly outside, but he can barely see it through the grimy windows. Muggle children play in the street, snippets of their cheerful shouting and laughter drifting in to him through the walls like ghosts, like phantom memories of happy times that were never had. Not here. Not by him.

Sirius wonders how a house can seem so big, and at the same time feel like the walls are closing in. He prowls the ugly rooms and shadowed corridors, disarming leftover booby traps and the odd Doxie infestation, trying to keep himself busy. But he’s done with that before it’s even lunch time. God, how is he going to get through this day? He glances longingly at an open bottle of fire whiskey, but turns away from it. He is determined not to be drunk this time when Remus gets back from his mission.

Instead, he decides on an early lunch, but ends up just picking at the food Molly left him. He resents it because he resents _her_ , realizing just how childish he’s being all the while. Molly is just caring about Harry when she questions Sirius’ judgment, no matter how wrong she may be. And she’s just trying to help when she tells him that he should be grateful to be alive, grateful that he’s not still rotting away in Azkaban. And she’s right about that. And he is grateful. But she doesn’t understand what it’s like for him here, to be back in this house. None of them do. They didn’t grow up here. They don’t know the memories every nook and cranny hold for him. How his mother hexed his nine year old self for breaking that lamp, or how his father sat him in that chair over there to tell him just what a disappointment he had turned out to be. It’s nothing more than an ugly old house to the rest of the Order; they come and go as they please, while he remains trapped here. He keeps reminding himself that this is the only way he can help, that he’s doing this for Harry. But that doesn’t change the fact that this is just another kind of prison he‘s been locked up in, and none of them really understand that. He’s not even sure if Remus does.

Remus. Sirius lifts his head from the sofa he’s been lying on since he gave up on eating lunch and looks at the clock over the mantle. “He’s late again,” it says. That’s not unusual, unfortunately. He’s always late, but it’s not his fault. It’s not like the shady types he’s forced to deal with are all that punctual. Still, Remus is *very* late this time, even for him. The shadows in the room are getting longer, and all Sirius can hear is his own uneasy breathing. He throws his arm over his eyes and tries to calm down, to nap, anything to take up some time. He should be tired as he barely slept at all last night. But it’s just too hot to sleep, and so he lays there and tries not to worry, tries not to imagine what will become of him if anything were to happen to Moony. He never imagined Remus would want him again after everything that happened, but now that he has him back he doesn’t think he could go on without him.

At the sound of locks clicking open and wards coming down, Sirius begins to breath normally again, and it’s with effort that he walks rather than runs to the front door.

“Sorry I’m late,” are the first words out of Moony’s mouth. “You must’ve been worried.”

“Me? Worry?” He crosses his arms over his chest and leans back casually against the wall, taking Remus in, checking for damage. He seems fine, if a little tired. He’s also sweaty and sunburned, which Sirius thinks looks very good on him. He shrugs. “I’ve been so busy here, I had no idea you were even due back today. This morning, actually. Hours ago.”

Remus smiles. “I missed you, too,” he says, as Sirius pushes himself off the wall and wraps his arms around him. He buries his face in Remus’ neck and inhales.

“I’m already half-crazy. Ask anyone. Don’t drive me the rest of the way, all right?”

Remus says nothing, just reassures him with those strong hands and soft lips that he is there and real and fine. But he pulls back long before Sirius is ready to let him go and leads him into the drawing room.

“Hot out there for this time of year,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Like summer.”

“Hot in here,” Sirius responds. “Like hell.”

Remus laughs out loud. “I really did miss you,” he says affectionately. “But I did not miss this house. Let’s get some air in here.” He walks over to one of the windows, which Sirius has attempted to open several times. He thinks his mother may have bewitched it. Remus points his wand at it. “Ascendo!” he says. Nothing happens. He tries again, with more conviction. The window rattles a little, but remains stubbornly closed.

“Gee, why didn’t I ever think to do that,” Sirius says.

Remus give him one of his long-suffering looks. “Well, why don’t you help me, then? Two wands are better than one.”

Sirius waggles his eyebrows. “Yes, I’ve always thought so.” He puts a hand on Remus’ shoulder and they both draw their wands, speaking the spell in unison. The window creaks and groans and finally rises up half-way.

“Success! Of a kind.” Remus goes to the window and pushes the heavy velvet draperies back a little farther, releasing a cloud of dust that makes him sneeze. He leans down and looks out the open portion of the window. “Well, would you look at that.”

“What?”

“I believe someone has illegally parked in front of the house!”

“We are fighting ultimate evil and you’re worried about illegal parking?”

“Don’t look, then. Suit yourself,” Remus says, but his smirk alone is enough to pique Sirius’ curiosity.

He draws in a sharp breath as he peers out the window, blinking to make sure what he’s seeing is real and not just wishful thinking, a figment of his imagination.

“Oh, Moony…” The Triumph, his pride and joy, is parked right in front of Number Twelve, the late afternoon sun gleaming off its well-polished chrome.

“It’s why I was late. I had to pick it up in Hogsmeade. I asked Hagrid to take it to a shop there and have it tuned up.”

“Does it still fly?”

“Oh, yes.” He leans in conspiratorially, whispering in Sirius’ ear. “But I think you should try it out yourself, just to be sure.”

All of his limbs are tingling, and Sirius reaches back and grabs Remus’ hand. “You could get in a lot of trouble…”

“Only if someone finds out. And I‘ll just tell them to sod off if they do.”

“Messer Moony!”

“I was a Marauder too,” he says, a bit put out. “Why does everyone always forget that?”

“I didn’t forget,” Sirius says, turning around to face him. “And I seem to recall that your _particular_ specialty was…”

“…not getting caught,” Remus finishes, with a grin. “So are we going to stand around reminiscing or are we going to ride the damn bike?”

“It’s still light out. What if someone recognizes me?”

Remus raises his wand again. A murmured _Dissimulo_ takes care of that, disguising his appearance from anyone who might see them.

“The bike is disillusioned?”

Remus nods. “Of course.”

“You are fucking brilliant!” Sirius kisses him hard before running out the door. Stepping outside is like stepping into a kaleidoscope after the dark, drab gray of Grimmauld Place, and he has to pause for a moment to take it all in. But he’s already sitting on the worn leather seat of the bike, running his hands reverently over the body and handle bars when Remus comes down the walk.

“I’m getting very jealous,” Remus says.

Sirius’ heart is in his throat and he can barely get the words out. “Remus,” he says, “I can’t thank you…”

“You don’t have to thank me, Padfoot. I can only imagine how it’s been for you, being in that house. Being locked up again.”

Sirius looks up at Remus, the setting sun behind him surrounding him in a golden glow. Moony is such an ironic nickname, he thinks, for this man who is his sun, his light, his warmth. The darkness is coming; sometimes he can practically feel it bearing down on him, on them all. But it’s not dark yet. He’s glad he has Remus to remind him of that once in a while.

He revs the engine and grins. “Where to, mate?”

Remus climbs on behind him, wrapping his arms around Sirius, and pressing his body close. His breath raises goose bumps on Sirius’ neck when he speaks. “West, I think.”

The western sky is on fire, a riot of color, red and orange and violet and all the shades in between. It’s nearly the most beautiful thing Sirius has ever seen. Nearly. He looks back over his shoulder.

“Shall we ride off into the sunset together, Moony?”

Remus gives him a brilliant smile.

“Every chance we get.”

 

 


End file.
